She breathed deeply of the starch of his shirt. He was six blocks away from his home, a ten story building apparently made solely of glass. He's neighbourly; he has a jingle for every ache and joy I've had. Jim is up to the neck in Mahatmas and Theosophy and Higher Thought and rot—writes letters worse than Alice. “I wonder,” she said, “why one writes him sentences like that? It’ll have to go,” she decided, “I’ve written too many already. He turned to her and pinned her against the headrest with his kisses.
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